by Jeff Abbott
“Good morning,” Mike Alderson said as he hurried past her desk. He was a nice-looking man, tall and trim, brown hair thinning, divorced for several years, with soft brown eyes and a bold smile. She had talked him into a more stylish pair of eyeglasses. He kept trying to talk her into dinner, a kind of dinner that seemed between more than friends. It was a side effect of long friendship and loneliness, but she could not encourage him. At least not now. She was deeply fond of Mike, but she wasn’t ready. “How are you?” he asked. “I’m sorry I was gone yesterday. You and David, and Cal, too, were much in my thoughts.”
They walked into his office together. She closed the door. “I’m fine. I don’t want to make a production of it here.”
“Of course.”
“But I do need your help. I want to unmask an anonymous Internet user.” Mike Alderson had been David’s godfather. Mike would want to rage at this person’s cruelty, fix the problem, take care of it for her, but he was busy launching what could be a hugely successful company. She didn’t want him involved.
“Is someone bothering you?” He took a step toward her.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” She said nothing more and he waited and she still said nothing.
Mike hesitated. “Is Cal being difficult?” Mike had kept his opinion about their separation to himself.
“Of course not. So who would you suggest?”
“At ferreting out someone who wants to be hidden? Maggie, I’d say.”
She gritted her teeth, but she put a bright smile on her face. “Thanks, I’ll ask her.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help you…?” He flushed with embarrassment. Mike had been a wonderful godfather to David, remembering every birthday, always encouraging him in his art and his sports and his studies, coming to his football games, laughing at his drawn comics. She would not tell him about the “ALL WILL PAY” written on the stone.
“If you feel up to it, could we have dinner this week?”
Perri hesitated for a moment, then said, “Sure.” He’s being your old friend and your boss. He’s worried about you.
“How about tonight?” Mike asked.
“OK, but late this afternoon you’ve got that conference call with the San Francisco product testers, they’re two hours behind us, and they always run long.” He was notorious for not remembering his own schedule. She smiled. “But dinner with a friend sounds good.” He seemed not to notice her emphasis.
“You have the phone conference call in ten minutes with Brad—he’s calling you,” she reminded him, and he nodded. She closed his office door behind him so he could prepare his notes in peace.
Maggie. One might expect or hope that two women over forty working at a software company full of twentyish programmers would be fast friends, but she and Maggie had virtually nothing in common, and Perri found Maggie distant and odd.
She walked down the hall to the darkest office, where the lights were kept dim and the reclusive programmer typed by the glow of her monitor. From the computer, an Eddy Arnold song from the 1960s softly played: “Make the World Go Away.” Maggie Chavez had interesting tastes and did not bother with headphones, but she kept the music low and unobtrusive. The song choice, however, didn’t make Perri feel more comfortable in knocking on Maggie’s open door.
“Good morning, Maggie.”
Type, type, type. Maggie didn’t glance up from her screen. Apparently she didn’t react to greetings, but awaited further data.
“I have a technical question for you.”
“Did you try restarting the system?” She still didn’t look up.
“No, I know how to fix my own computer.” She moved a towering stack of Java and Python programming books, topped by a massive tome on regular expressions and algorithms, off Maggie’s spare chair. Maggie, she was sure, kept them there to discourage visitors from sitting down and chatting with her. Most of the other programmers didn’t keep libraries of books; Perri had seen them looking up code examples online, in a corner window of their screen. But then, Maggie had been programming longer. Eddy Arnold gave way to Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” on her computer speakers.
What a self-descriptive playlist, Perri thought. She sat. She waited. A minute ticked by.
Maggie Chavez kept typing in code, but realized Perri was not going to leave. “Sorry, OK, what? Does Mike need something?”
“How would I find out who created an account on Faceplace? They’re using a fake name.”
Maggie stopped typing. She actually looked away from her computer screen to focus on Perri. “Is this a fake account using your name?”
“No.”
“Are they bullying you?”
Perri explained. Maggie listened with a surprising intensity.
“So how can I find out who Liv Danger is?”
“You need to set a little trap for your target.”
Perri waited and Maggie sighed that the explanation wasn’t obvious. “You need to get whoever is posting as ‘Liv Danger’ to click on a link. It will take them to a custom-designed page, a trap containing code that gathers data about their computer.”
“I sent ‘Liv’ a friend request, but she, or he, hasn’t answered it yet.”
“Well, if they do, send them a private message with that link. Of course you could just ask them who they are, but they might lie.”
“I don’t think she’ll be dumb enough to click on a link. Won’t she be suspicious?”
“You give Liv Danger a great reason to click on it.”
Perri could not think of such a reason, but pushed the thought aside. “And once they visit this site…”
“The customized page harvests information about the computer looking at the page. It could tell you if it’s being accessed by a computer or a phone, the operating system, the IP address…”
“The what?”
“IP address. Each device accessing the Internet has a unique address. The same computer doesn’t always get assigned the same IP address from the service provider, but the provider would know which computer had a certain IP address at a certain time. Getting them to share it with you is another matter.”
“And that would tell me who was accessing the page? It’s like a Social Security number?”
“Well, the service provider would then know the physical billing address for the account, which might be the same as where the computer was accessing the Internet. They might not share that with you, but it’s enough to complain to Faceplace that Liv Danger is an imposter account. Then you can request the information, such as who created it, what time they did so, the IP address of the computer they used, and so on.”
“And that would be definitive?”
“I would think.” Maggie started to turn back to her computer, wisdom dispensed, ready to start coding again.
“Wait, where can I get this code…how would I set up this trap page?” She was embarrassed that she knew nothing about how to set up a website.
“Oh, you want to do that?” Type, type, type. “I thought you just wanted information.”
“No, Maggie. I want to know who is saying this about my son. Please.” Her voice cracked on the final word.
Maggie stopped typing again and looked at Perri as if for the first time. “Sure, Perri, I can do it for you. I can help you craft the message, too, so this Liv Danger will want to click on it.”
“Thanks. It means a lot.”
“It would be helpful if I could sign into Faceplace as you, if Liv responds.”
“Sure.” Perri wrote down her account name and her password on a sticky note.
Maggie tucked the note away. “I’ll have something for you by tonight. Is that OK?”
“Yes, Maggie, thank you.” She couldn’t help herself, she came around the desk and gave Maggie a quick hug. Maggie said, “Yeah, whatever, OK,” but in the reflection of the monitor Perri could see a little smile from her.
She went back to the desk feeling better; Maggie would find this prankster. Perri turned to her co
mputer, to answer the five e-mails from different parties begging for Mike’s time that had arrived while she was gone. She was good at e-mail. She always sounded warm and cheery. So while she wrote e-mail answers with a tempered verve, she thought about what she would say—or do—to the defacer of her son’s grave.
13
JANE SLEPT IN the bed that should have been assigned to Adam’s roommate. The new semester would soon be here and St. Michael’s would likely assign a new student to share the room. She had a sense of a clock ticking, that the existence she had made for herself here, this limbo, could not last. Adam, forsaking the German girlfriend, was typing on the computer, trying to figure out who had created the Liv Danger page, when she finally fell asleep.
When she woke the next morning, he was already awake and showered. The local news played on the TV. Jane sat up in the bed and noticed a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and toast that Adam had brought to her from the commons.
“Breakfast in bed. I’m touched,” she said. “Thank you.”
“So what do you do today?”
“I’m going to go to my mom’s house and see what files she has on the crash. What the investigators said.” She ate the bacon and watched the news. The anchor started talking about a bizarre arson case in San Antonio, ninety miles away, five homes, just built, gutted by fire. One family had already moved in, and they interviewed the woman, upset and distraught. Her name across the bottom of the screen: Brenda Hobson. Her son was in the hospital with smoke inhalation and she was begging if anyone had any information on the fires, to please contact the police.
“That is just straight-out crazy, burning down all those houses,” Adam said.
I know her name, Jane thought. Blinking, staring.
She’d compiled a list of names of people who had helped her after the crash, when she wanted to write thank-you notes, but Mom said it wasn’t necessary. Brenda Hobson was one of the paramedics who had responded to the crash.
“I’m going,” she said, full of resolve. “To San Antonio.”
“What?” Adam said, who had stopped typing on his computer to watch the news story.
“That woman was a paramedic at the crash, her house and every house around her burns down, and now someone is saying ‘All Will Pay’ on my Faceplace page? It can’t be a coincidence.”
“You don’t have a car, and I have class today,” he reminded her. “And I don’t know if talking to her is a good idea. She’s not going to be at her house, how will you even find her?”
“My mother has a car,” she said. “You have a car you could loan me, you know, if you were like a really good friend to me.”
“No, Jane. You don’t drive anymore,” Adam said. “Bad idea.”
She let it go for the moment. She had an idea. She got dressed as he turned away, pulling on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and she grabbed her backpack and headed out the door.
* * *
Rather than hike across south Austin into Lakehaven for two hours, she took a rideshare car from a few blocks away from St. Michael’s, so her mother wouldn’t see she was still on the campus, to a shopping center near her mother’s house. She had decided it would be better to approach it on foot; that way she could make a better case for borrowing her mother’s spare car to take to San Antonio to see Brenda Hobson. She would look needier. After the rideshare car pulled away, she started her short walk to her mother’s house.
Lakehaven hadn’t changed much. Lava Java was still in the main shopping center; there was still a line of cars with high school parking stickers working their way through the drive-through at McDonald’s (there was no golden-arches sign, though—Lakehaven had strict signage controls, so the fast-food joints were tastefully marked with subtle letters against cool marble). It must have been a late-start morning; she remembered the joy of those infrequent days in school, when the teachers had meetings and the school didn’t start for two extra hours. She walked past signs urging either a yes or no vote on a massive school bond. She kept her eyes to the sidewalk, not wanting to look up. She had felt nervous passing the sign that read Lakehaven, Pop. 3,975.
This was where she grew up, but now it felt like enemy territory.
She walked into an older neighborhood not far from the high school. Two turns down was the cul-de-sac, Graymalkin Circle. She stood at the circle’s entrance. She hadn’t been back since last Christmas. The houses lay ahead, both of them. Norton. And Hall. She thought of the line from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet: Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona where we lay our scene…she had had to reread it to catch up for her classwork her senior year, having read it as a freshman, to finish a senior thesis for honors English on Shakespeare. She had no memory of having read it before or having watched any of the film versions, from the classic one with Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey to the modernized approach with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes.
And suddenly David, walking next to her, laughing on this sidewalk, his smile bright as the sun, walking her home not because he was her boyfriend but because he was her neighbor, braying out words from the prologue they’d studied that day as freshmen: Ancient grudge! New mutiny! Civil blood! And fatal loins! Not just loins, Jane, but FATAL loins! Poisonous loins. We’d all better be careful. Did you think we’d hear about loins in English today?
She put her hand over her mouth. David was gone.
It was a new memory. Did that really happen? Or was it her imagination stretching to bridge the gaps, the ever-dangerous threat of confabulation? She had no idea. She stood on the sidewalk, shivering, his words and laughter ringing in her ears. It would have been freshman year, right on the twilight where she began to lose her memories.
Did this mean she was breaking into the borderlands of the memories she’d lost?
If it was an emotional block, was it crumbling, now that she was confronting the crash? Or just a strand of memory, easing back into place, not to be repeated.
Oh, please, she thought. Please come back to me.
She stared at the two houses at the end of the cul-de-sac. “Bury their parents’ strife,” Shakespeare had written. That hadn’t happened.
Both yards were on an incline, studded with oaks. The houses were large even by Lakehaven standards, two stories. Her mother’s brick house had a wraparound front porch, empty now. The Halls’ house had a limestone exterior; it was a bit larger. Jane walked toward her house, but she kept her gaze on the Halls’ front door. If Perri came out of it toward her, she would be ready.
She walked past the parked car and glanced in: a backseat with blankets and duffel bags, in the driver’s seat a man working on a computer tablet. She walked on and she heard the car door open behind her.
“Jane?”
She stopped, turned. Her breath caught in her chest. Matteo Vasquez. The reporter. The last time she’d seen him here at her house was when her mother was bringing her home from the hospital. They’d cooperated with his first story about her, but not the last two in his “Girl Who Doesn’t Remember” series.
“Hi. Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” she said. “I remember you. What do you want?”
“I’m writing a follow-up story on you. It’s been two years. I would love to interview you for it. See how you are. People would like to know how you’re doing.”
“I doubt that. Get away from my house.”
“I’m on the street; it’s public property,” he said, trying to smile. He looked bad, she realized, red-rimmed eyes, in need of a haircut.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Where are you living?” he asked. “You’re no longer enrolled at Saint Michael’s. I called.”
“Here.”
“I’ve been here for two hours and I didn’t see you walk out.”
“Can’t you just leave me alone?”
“I’m not at the paper anymore,” he said. He had a thin, reedy voice, a habit of his tone rising at the end of sentences as if he was always interviewing,
always asking a question. “I’m freelancing. So, you know, a story like yours, I can sell it to a much bigger paper.”
“I’m not that interesting.”
“Did the memories ever come back?”
She decided to answer. “Not all of them. Not the past three years.”
“So your memories only go back to when your dad died. See, that’s what makes it so great. It’s such a good framing device, your two tragedies…”
At that point she turned away. He hurried after her. “I don’t mean to upset you, Jane.”
“Well, you have. I don’t have anything to say.” But then she realized, yeah, she did. What if she told Vasquez about Liv Danger, and Brenda Hobson? Of course Brenda’s misfortune might be a coincidence. She had no idea, and if she was wrong, she would sound crazy. It was better to wait. That would be so satisfying, to send a reporter after Kamala, hiding behind the Liv Danger name. But she didn’t—she couldn’t, not until she had proof.
“What if I talk to Perri Hall? Wouldn’t you want to tell your side of the story?”
“I’m not interested in what she has to say.”
“Kind of amazing you’ve both stayed in your houses.” Trying to provoke her, she thought. If he was camped out here, maybe he was waiting for Perri Hall, too. “You know, another article on you could be a big help.”
“How? You wrote my dad killed himself and he didn’t. You wrote I tried to and I didn’t. You told the world I was awful.”
“I never made a judgment about you,” he said.
“You told. You made so many more people hear about me…” As if he had exposed her, naked, to an unkind audience.
“Jane. Lots of movies come from magazine articles. Saturday Night Fever. The Fast and the Furious. If I can tell the end of your story, that you rose above what happened, then there could be real interest from Hollywood.”
If I rose above what happened. Above David’s death and losing my memory and walking around homeless with a brain that won’t always help me. She wondered what he would say if she told him she’d just recovered a memory. She stood still while he approached her and handed her a business card. The name of the Austin paper was scratched out, a cell phone number and an e-mail address written in by hand. “If you change your mind,” he said.
